


Gloriana

by aabbey



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Crack, Episode: s07e25 Endgame, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 13:38:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1389712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aabbey/pseuds/aabbey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Borg Queen assimilates Admiral Janeway, she goes through her memories. Endgame crack!fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gloriana

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2005. 
> 
> "I wish I shared your confidence."
> 
> "You would, if you'd had as much experience with the Queen as I've had."
> 
> -Captain and Admiral Janeway, Endgame Part II

A spark, a flash. Burning shock under the casing through my exoskeleton. Jump with the shock of Janeway's face. Older, tighter, this Janeway. More desperate, I instruct my mind, the hive; the hive that is my mind.

She comes close, Janeway. Her eyes lock onto mine, she pledges cooperation, promises power. Billions known, and still none match her. This admiral struts in front of me, stretches unused muscle.

But she does not respond to my shivering. Her eyes...make no widening, show no fear. And we wonder, search. She is not here. The hive finds her blood, her flesh, and now, transports it before me in this cube. Now she is here. She is steaming with the fear that fuels her.

It is much better. And I know she loves, appreciates, the thrust of my metal, my thoughts, into the pillar of her slender neck. Such a beautiful contradiction, power in fragility.

Her consciousness snakes through me. I find memories in this blood, unwrap and savor them slowly.

The first found is of quiet sorrow, one carried continually.

Pale cheek against Kathryn's own. "And you'll be ready in the morning. For the wedding."

"Yes. Thank you, Captain."

Her voice is soft, the steel behind it twisting deeply. "Goodnight, Seven."

Another fragment for me to finger, another way she cannot hide.

The alien weapon cut through the tattoo that night. Blood everywhere. She stretches him into her cabin, drags him to the couch. As she imagines the memorial service, she worries about Seven's body in space. She thinks I will take it again, will claim it forever. He sprawls across her lap, tearing at a uniformed leg. Through the night, his breathing shallow against her.

She kept the torn uniform, where blood has become fabric. She plays God behind a desk, and through ten gray-streaked years, remains grateful that the fleet is not omniscient. I feel the creak in her bones grow wild, feel where it screamed with her jump through time, back onto her ship. She never left the terror of those days behind. They chased her down winding alleyways and onto strange planets, into a solution. And she hunted those days down, and will make them pay. Even as a child, she had a perverse concept of excitement. And this will make it right. Because good rulers don't fail their subjects. Or themselves.

I speak to Kathryn, speak into her mind. It is highly fascinating, her desire to protect her collective. As queen, I have made choices that resulted in the deaths of millions of drones. Decisions that gave me no pleasure, but were necessary to preserve the health of the collective. We are different in that, I say. She does not see death as a form of protection. And she falls to her knees, in silent acknowledgement of the power we have over her.

There is one story she tries to guard carefully, keep away. She should know better. In this memory, our skin is not our skin. She is older, this transfiguration of my power. The hands that are not mine stroke the clavicle of this older Janeway, this Janeway who should know better. We explore the flesh of this memory. She is tired. Still a captain. And just as vicious as this--Admiral--spitting inside of us, dizzying my shell with tales too strong for retelling, poisoning me. The mind of this unknown Janeway begs for a transport, for retreat, for the weapons she seeks from this cube, doesn't she? Because this is part of the mission, and there is only that goal. Offensive against the Borg. The only way to beat us. But she is scared, this we know. The mind retreats. The hand that mirrors mine creates waves of goose pimples crawling her inner arms. Arms falling, waving in shards to the floor.

She is stifling her desire. Just as she stifles her scream. My future hand slits open the bloodied fabric, snakes inside her, bruising and burning the heat I have always circled around. There is a half-sob, half-screech. Janeway thinks it is the snarled hiss of a fighting cat, in the cold night. That would be an accurate assessment, we think. Mute scream, the hand trips back up her side.

Our fingers are gone, our hands. My arms fall, splintering, to the floor. The mind of the hive is memory, memory and mind are as one. It is too much, this touching of--"It must be something you assimilated."

Now we are as one. I compliment her on her effective distractions. But the hive will endure this breaking, this screaming. I tell her that humanity is broken. I tell her that her flock is scattered, has never loved her. What victory, then, if death is no protection? She has traveled far, and must stop, even as she cannot.

But we have our Kathryn. I have and will have her. See how we fall? She draws up, ready for the death she will suffer. For them, always.

We see nothing, I see nothing. But her eyes in the flames around us. Her eyes wail to the whiteness above. It is the last before darkness, mechanical and sure.


End file.
